Upon Wings of the Dove
by Veela of Erised
Summary: Perhaps it cannot be done alone. Our need for touch and understanding must come into play. But, is one ever too far gone? Too far to be pulled back, reborn from the ashes, recovered from the wreckage?
1. Prologue

I'm not J.K. Rowling and neither are you.

Have you ever stood still?  I mean, really still.  So still in fact, it seems the world is moving without you.  Have you ever stared up at the clouds as they float along the horizon?  All moving without you.

Where do they go so willingly?  Those cotton clusters.  Why drift along the horizon?  The horizon, only an imaginary line that recedes as one approaches.

What leaps of faith we all take!  I know I have.  But they have only betrayed me.

It's a funny thing.  Life, that is.  Love, joy, grief, pain.  It's a wonder such weak creatures must endure burdens as these; and yet, prevail.  But it never gets any easier.  The load never lightens; the road rarely straightens and narrows.

But does one ever truly heal?  Can one forget and start anew?  Loss never fills itself in.  One cannot mend a defunct heart.  The sorrow remains, eating away.  Causing the ones you knew to disintegrate.  That life-giving pump won't disperse it.  Contained.  Feeding on the host.  And so it remains dead, void, and cold.  Refusing to heal.

Perhaps it cannot be done alone.  Our need for touch and understanding must come into play.  But, is one ever too far gone?  Too far to be pulled back, reborn from the ashes, recovered from the wreckage?

Are we ever really alone? Is loneliness an opportunity for self-discovery or a slip into depression after the realization of emptiness?  Can one be satisfied with surrounding company who profess to sympathize and comfort?  Is it not vain and mistaken empathy for one to assume they _know_ another's grievances rather than _feel_?  

Can one moment change destiny?  Is the one regretful mistake what prevents us some pleasant event to come?  Or could it be a blessing with no foresight kept devastation from occurring?  Or do we merely play it out with no hope or promise?

Either way, I wish I'd known.  Hindsight's always 20/20.  I know this.  I'm also aware that it does no good to dream of a premonition for the past.

But is it better to know?  Does one actually feel relieved to know the outcome?  Or, do they wait it out with panic, guilt, and pity?  Is it best to know one's cause of death or time of passing?  When knowledge is gained of one, surely there is a fervent desire to learn the other. 

Are we ever content with our lives?  How can it be more fulfilling if we aren't even sure what fulfills us to begin with?  

Will it ever be possible to come to terms with what we are unable to accept?

Can we ever find our way?

I for one know not the answers.

Could it be that, despite the agony, one solitary life would rise up and find solace upon wings of the dove?


	2. Hitting the Bottom

I remember that day. It's caged in my memory, you see; like an imprint that won't easily be rubbed out. It can't be forgotten; so, in turn I'm cursed to remember it every waking moment. As long as there is life in this empty shell.

It's hard to think of our more jovial times. The thoughts are knocked out by the moment that sears my soul. It's not easy to see someone so strong defeated and slung across the shoulder of his rival.

Perhaps it's not so much a feeling of despair, but exasperating guilt. Suffering I cannot escape from.

I've been cruel to his memory. I've dishonored his loyalty. I've abandoned him. Inexcusable behavior on my part resulted in self-torment.

He was announced dead on arrival. Little life remained, and there was nothing anyone could do. I saw him struggle for air. His eyes welling in pain, but no tears. Never tears. I saw his eyes roll up and his lifeless lids shut. Gone forever.

I'll never forgive myself. It should have been Draco, not Harry.

No one knows what happened. But, I do know that Draco did nothing. Voldemort uttered his deadly words, and my Draco did nothing.

Remorse beats in my heart and flows through my veins. I have been ripped of my meaning, my life fraying at the seams. Nothing can hold together the scraps of my shredded soul.

His dying eyes gazed up at me. He breathed out with a fight he loved me. And then my love was gone, and nothing would bring him back.

I'm sure he saw my tears. I know. I held none back. He watched me lose hope, then slipped away.

Like hate, denial is a string word. Too strong, in fact. I prefer to think of it as a temporary disbelief, not some psychological refusal to grasp reality. No, none of that.

Is love easy to recognize? Perhaps I mistook a friendly gesture of pity for passionate admiration. But I fell for false love, and I don't believe I've yet hit the bottom.

The first gentle touch was so mesmerizing; captivating beyond belief. A comfort I thought could bring a return to normalcy. But false love will make you fall and never hit the bottom. I know.

His deep, calming voice was a reassurance as he whispered to me in his arms. Filling me with kind words and tenderness. Waiting for me to break in his hands. Anticipating my fall, knowing he won't hear me hit the bottom.

In a moment of weakness, I shunned my love's past and hoped for refuge upon the wings of a dove. Finding nothing but guilt and permanent disbelief. I deny my own denial. I've fallen and hit the bottom.

No Hermione, there is no bottom for you.


End file.
